


Sausage Situation in Flavortown

by makesomelove



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Guy Fieri POV, Implied/Referenced Stabbing, M/M, Post-Canon, Richie is Friends with Guy Fieri Multiverse, fanfic of my own fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesomelove/pseuds/makesomelove
Summary: “What?” Eddie twists around to face Richie so fast. “You can’t just - you can’t cold call Guy Fieri.”“Sure I can,” Richie says, his thumb already scrolling. “We’re friends.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 227





	Sausage Situation in Flavortown

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [If I'm Butter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589070) and will not make ANY sense, I am pretty sure, without reading that first. This is stupid and was written without supervision and it makes me laugh. When I said Richie is friends with Guy Fieri, I meant it. Thank you to Bridget for her unconditional encouragement and to Natalie for being my muse and my target audience.

Richie practically begs for Eddie to let him put a TV in the bedroom for when he stays over. In fact, he literally begs. 

"Eddie, please, I'm begging you," Richie says, turning away from his current kitchen antics to hold Eddie's hands in his own, his eyes hard and serious. "I'll do anything." 

"Anything," Eddie says, pinching Richie's unadorned, hole-free earlobe between his fingers. 

"Almost anything," Richie says. 

Richie has a hard time sleeping through more than a couple hours at a time, his nightmares visibly pitiful and gut-wrenching when Eddie has been the one to wake him up out of them, mouth open and whimpering something Eddie can't begin to understand. If it helps Richie, of course he’s going to say yes. But he likes to watch him work for it, a little bit. 

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Richie says, a small tinge of guilt in his words. “I can’t stress that enough. Being in bed with you, Eddie, it’s the honor of my life.” 

Eddie stays silent, distracted with raptly yet cautiously watching Richie pick up a knife to slice a lemon in half. He keeps as much distance as he can bear between them, maybe a Richie’s arm’s length, just to be safe. Eddie doesn’t have a juicer, so Richie has to take the halves of lemon and squeeze them with his bare hands. He lifts one half and holds it over a pitcher, using his other hand to catch the seeds. He envelops the entire fruit in his hand and crushes it, the lemon spurting its juice, dribbling down Richie’s fist until it’s completely spent. 

“Lying beside you, breathing in the sweet carbon dioxide your mouth exhales,” Richie continues, as if he is not pulverizing the pulp of Eddie’s brain with his hands, as if Eddie is not supposed to want Richie to squeeze him with all his might until he fucking explodes. “I photosynthesize next to you. You know?” 

“Uh,” Eddie says, white-knuckling the kitchen counter as Richie crushes the other lemon half in his big, strong hand. “Yeah, I know.” 

“You do?” Richie says, his little smile growing huge. “It’s just, you know, if I fall asleep to like, re-runs of _Futurama_ or whatever. It helps. When I wake up screaming and lay eyes on Dr. Zoidberg? I just like, know I’ll be OK.” 

Eddie doesn't know how to not be jealous of someone named Dr. Zoidberg from a cartoon. Being sought out by Richie for comfort in the middle of the night should be his job. 

Richie snaps him out of it by licking the lemon juice off his fingers and making a face. Eddie wants to kiss him, and he can, so he does. 

“Yeugh,” Eddie says, pulling away and making a face too. “Sour.” 

Richie puts the peel of the juiced lemon in his mouth. He says, “Come on. Body shots.” 

“It’s 10 o’clock in the morning,” Eddie says. 

“Virgin body shot,” Richie says around the peel. 

“Where’s the salt?” Eddie says. 

“Just lick my neck,” Richie says, starting to drool. “I’m sweaty enough.” 

Eddie doesn’t have to be told twice. He licks up from the sweaty, salty base of Richie’s throat to the sharp hinge of his jaw, then bites the gross, mangled lemon out of his mouth. He spits it out on the counter and smiles triumphantly, though he doesn't really know what he's triumphed over. Being a freak? 

“So I can get a TV?” Richie says, wrapping his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and hauling him close. Eddie braces himself on the kitchen counter, his hand landing dangerously close to the knife Richie was using. He nudges it away gently. 

“Anything,” Eddie sighs. “But it’s not, like. It’s not because of, like.” 

“Eddie,” Richie says, his eyes behind his glasses huge and serious. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking.” 

“The sex?” Eddie says, then winces. If Richie wants to invite Dr. Zoidberg into their bedroom, and who knows who after that, then maybe Eddie should be worried. 

“I just told you my body produces chlorophyll when I’m near you,” Richie says. He hugs Eddie, probably hard enough for seeds to come out of him, if he had seeds under his flesh. “Eddie, my main squeeze. Nothing comes between me and my Eddie.” 

And if Eddie is being completely honest, he constantly breaks his own rule anyway. When Richie is gone, Eddie will lie in bed with his phone held over his face and say good night to Richie's feet, then his face, from three time zones away, aching from head to toe with want. Sometimes he’ll just scroll through the recent log of their text messages when he can’t sleep either, comforting reminders that Richie just thinks of him unprompted. What's another screen in his life to make Richie happier and healthier? 

The next time Mike is in the city at the same time as Richie, they go out and come back with a TV and a bag of key limes. Mike helps Richie mount it to the wall. When it's all hooked up, they all lie sideways on the bed facing the TV like it's the first time humans have ever seen fire. 

"Thank you for all your help, Mikey," Richie says. "Are you even cuter since the last time I saw you? Is that a new nose ring? The gold really complements your eyes. You know - " 

"Richie, is there something I can do for you?" Mike says. 

"You got any of that toilet fruit garage wine?" Richie says. "It would pair well with those key limes." 

"He and Bill don't make it in a toilet," Eddie says, uncertainly. "Do you?" 

"No," Mike says, getting up off the bed to dig a bottle of wine out of his overnight bag. "We don't." 

After the wine is gone, they all fall asleep together under the flickering glow of the TV. Eddie thinks, maybe it's not so bad to have it. 

~*~

Eddie hasn’t watched TV in bed since he was a kid, when he was actually, truly sick with something awful for a week and his mother pushed the television set from the living room into his bedroom so she could watch over him too intently and be a witness to Luke and Laura’s wedding at the same time. Now, only when Richie is here and they don’t have to get up or don’t want to, sometimes he indulges. 

Right now, Richie is here. Eddie can hear him running the water in the kitchen sink, open and closing cupboards. Richie cracks an ice cube tray and the sound of it, the twisting and loosening, sparks a strange, turned on feeling in the framework of Eddie’s hips that he doesn’t particularly want to think about. Eddie flips through the channels quickly, not really absorbing anything, until - 

“Hey, Rich!” Eddie calls out, scrambling frantically from his melted position on the bed to sit up all the way and fully appreciate what’s in front of him. He’s landed on the Food Network, and a familiar face pops up on the screen. “Come here!” 

“I’m right here, you don’t have to shout,” Richie says directly into Eddie’s ear from behind him. 

“Ah!” Eddie gasps loudly, clutching at his chest and closing his eyes. Richie only has to move his head a small space to kiss Eddie on the cheek. 

“Sorry,” Richie says. He runs his fingers through Eddie's hair once, soothing, and places two glasses of lemonade on the table next to Eddie. He gets on the bed beside him, stretching out his big body luxuriously. “What’s so important you have to bust my ear drums?” 

“Look,” Eddie says, pointing at the TV and raising the volume. “It’s your episode.” 

Guy Fieri is on screen introducing the guest judges for _Guy’s Grocery Games_ , an episode entitled “Sausage Situation in Flavortown”. Richie is last, Guy Fieri describing him as being a “funnyman with a taste for something smoked”. 

“ _One_ of my episodes,” Richie corrects. “Hey, Guy has his ears pierced too.” He reaches over and tugs Eddie’s pierced earlobe with his fingers. Eddie flushes, still getting used to that being a part of him that appeals to Richie. 

“Maybe that’s why you thought this would be sexy,” Eddie says. “Since you’re in love with him.” 

“Maybe,” Richie says. “You’re just my stepping stone. My starter house. Have you ever thought about going blonde? Growing out your flavor saver?” 

“My what?” Eddie shrieks. “What is that?” 

“Here,” Richie says, placing his thumb right under Eddie’s bottom lip. It makes Eddie think of all the flavors he could save there. 

“Oh,” Eddie says. 

“I look like shit,” Richie says. 

“What? No,” Eddie says, considering Richie’s handsome face. “You look nice.” 

“I mean on TV,” Richie says, turning back to the screen. “Wasn’t my best day.” 

The Richie on screen is waxy and haggard, even under the TV makeup and lights. The skin under his eyes is bruised and droopy and he looks sweaty and tense whenever they show him, completely unlike the loose, languid shape he’s in now. He looks older than he is now, weighed down by something only Eddie and five other people on the planet could possibly see. The cuts in the editing are a little weird, and Richie doesn’t seem to be featured heavily, especially compared to the other guest judges. 

Eddie remembers Richie telling him about this day, how he felt alone and fragile and like a huge fuck-up, and all he can think about is how he probably felt the same way back then, and how they never have to feel like that again now that they’ve got each other. 

“I wish I could’ve been there for you,” Eddie says. He misses Richie so much when he’s gone that he’s already missing him now, before he has to leave again. 

He lets Richie pull him in close until he’s all but melted anew, a half-liquid half-man form being held in the shape of Richie’s big, strong arms. 

“Me too,” Richie says. “They had to cut so many of my meat jokes.” 

“I would’ve stopped you,” Eddie says. “This is a family show.” 

“You know what, Guy would probably be able to tell you more about it than me,” Richie says. He wiggles around, digging in his pocket for his phone. Two screens now while they’re in bed - Eddie sighs harshly through his nostrils. “Let me call him and ask.” 

“What?” Eddie twists around to face Richie so fast. “You can’t just - you can’t cold call Guy Fieri.” 

“Sure I can,” Richie says, his thumb already scrolling. “We’re friends.” 

“Richie,” Eddie says urgently, trying to snatch his phone away from him. Richie dodges his attempts and rolls away, pressing the phone to his ear. 

“The man has a memory like a bear trap,” Richie says while it’s ringing. “He’ll be able to tell you all about it.” 

"I don't want - " Eddie starts. 

“Hey, Guy,” Richie says cheerfully, his smile lighting up. Eddie wonders if he looks that happy when he calls Eddie. He better. “Hey, how are ya? Oh, that’s great. Not much, to be honest. "Me and Eddie - " 

Eddie’s eyes go wide - does Guy Fieri know who he is, and who he is in relation to Richie? Does Guy Fieri know about the _clown_? 

Richie sticks his tongue out and rolls his eyes to the ceiling in response to whatever Guy says to him. “Okay, like you’re not? Yeah, yeah. Nope, not yet. Stan's chicken? Oh, she's great, you were right, yeah, it was a good call," Richie says. Eddie’s mind is being rewired as they speak. Guy Fieri knows who Stan's chicken is? 

"Well, we were just watching the first episode of _Triple G_ I was on," Richie continues. Eddie hears Guy laugh on the other end of the line. “I know. Here, I’m gonna hand the phone to Eddie,” Richie says, already pulling it away from his ear. Eddie shakes his head furiously and tries to escape from Richie’s arm around him. “Will you do me a solid and tell him about it for me? I can’t remember it at all. You've got time, don't ya?" 

Then suddenly Eddie is on the phone with Guy Fieri, Richie’s best friend besides his other best friends. 

“This is Eddie,” Eddie says. Richie laughs at him and Eddie wants to stab him. 

“Eddie!” Guy says, and for some reason, Eddie trusts him immediately. “Hey, buddy, how’s it hangin'?” 

“Uh, pretty good,” Eddie says. He clutches Richie’s hand to his chest, silently asking him not to move and nervously twisting the ring on Richie’s pinky with his fingers. “Yeah, thanks. How are - how are you?” 

“Richie was having a rough day that day,” Guy says, cutting straight to the chase. 

~*~

“You know, with your sausage and her egg, this gal next to me could end up pregnant,” Richie says, sticking his thumb out at Iron Chef Alex Guarnaschelli. Alex laughs at it, pushing at Richie’s shoulder, and it makes him smile for the first time that day. 

“Richie, sorry,” the director says, signaling to cut for the fifth time this hour. “Sorry, you know you can’t say that.” 

“No, I didn’t know that,” Richie says, violently poking his eyes with the tips of his fingers and groaning. He looks as tired as Guy feels. “I wasn’t like, given a list of things I’m not allowed to say on television.” 

“This is a family show,” the director says. 

“How do you think babies are made?” Richie says, and now he’s joking with a combative edge. “I can’t say _wurst orgy ever_. I can’t say _your meat is quite the mouthful_. I can’t say _if I’d known this was going to be a sausage fest I wouldn’t have come_. I can’t talk about beating my meat. You won’t even let me say weiner.” 

On this last word, Richie’s voice rises in frustration. With himself or the situation, Guy can’t know for sure without talking to the man about it. 

“Why don’t we take a break,” Guy interjects, watching Richie closely. 

“God, I’m sorry,” Richie says, slumping down in his seat. “I’m really sorry, everyone.” 

The crew mumbles and breaks for a few. Guy takes Richie by the elbow and urges him to stand up and take a walk with him. He’s either hungover as hell or still a little drunk from last night. And look - Guy hasn’t had one of those nights in a while, but he’s been there. You don’t become Mayor of Flavortown without painting it red a little bit. 

Guy has heard of Richie Tozier. Some of the man’s material is a little blue, sure, and Guy thinks that’s dynamite. He doesn’t think he’d let his kids watch it, but he laughs at some of that stuff himself. The director was right, though - this is a family show. Richie is sabotaging himself by acting up, and acting up is sabotaging him. It’s a vicious cycle. 

Guy takes him outside for some fresh air. In the daylight, he can see the dark circles under Richie’s eyes, the clamminess on his skin, how he puts his hands in his pockets and holds himself close. Man, Guy doesn’t know what’s up with him, but there’s some kind of festival of funk around Richie, like he’s radiating something bad. Guy wants to get to the root of it. 

“Hey, buddy,” Guy says, reaching out to pat Richie on the shoulder. 

“Guy Fieri, look,” Richie interrupts him, ducking away from Guy’s comforting hand. “I’m sorry about all this. Maybe I should just - I don’t know, you can fire me, it’s fine.” 

“Shut the front door,” Guy says. “No way, man, that’s not what we’re gonna do.” 

“You’re not?” Richie says, and something about the way his eyes look behind his thick nerd glasses reminds Guy of his sons. Not that Hunter and Ryder are nerds. 

“Hey, man,” Guy says, not breaking eye contact with Richie. “Is everything OK?” 

That seems to cause something to break inside Richie, and tears form in his eyes. 

“No, Guy,” Richie says, voice choked. “It’s not.” 

Guy opens his arms and Richie collapses in them, making himself as small as possible to fit, sobbing his eyes out. 

“It’s OK man,” Guy says, rubbing his hand up and down Richie’s back like he would a frightened baby. “It’s righteous, man.” 

After a minute, Richie calms down. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and backs off, laughing miserably at himself. Then the real floodgates open up. 

“I’m a fucking fraud,” Richie says. “I don’t write any of my own jokes. Nobody knows me, not really. You know? Everyone around me, they’re just like, around me. They don’t know who I am. I don’t think I have a real fucking friend in my life.” 

“Hey - “ Guy begins, about to explain that real friendship is rare, and when you find it, you can put it on a flip-flop. 

“And I’m gay,” Richie blurts out, blubbering pitifully again. 

“Oh, winner winner chicken dinner,” Guy says, nodding sagely to himself. That’s the ticket. That’s what he needed to hear. “That’s great. That’s bananas good, Richie.” 

“It is?” Richie says, almost desperately. “You’re the first person I’ve ever said that to. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No, man, that’s for you to tell,” Guy says. “I’m glad you told me. I think it’s been bothering you, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, I don’t know.” 

“Well, look, let’s head back in,” Guy says. “We’ll get you cleaned up and then get back to work. Then maybe we can talk some more after. Sound good?” 

Richie nods. They touch up his makeup and hair, and they finish filming without any more inappropriate jokes. 

~*~

“Then I drove him to my house, my wife made us some fruit salad, and we sat in the backyard chit-chatting,” Guy says. “And now I have a lifelong pain in my neck!” 

Eddie’s laughs, clearing his throat of the ardent emotions jammed in there. “I know the feeling.” 

Richie hasn’t moved, his arm still wrapped tightly around Eddie’s body, holding him close. He runs the hand not trapped in Eddie’s grip up and down Eddie’s back and presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple, letting his lips linger there. 

Eddie is so happy to have Richie here, alive with him, exhaling carbon dioxide. He almost wants to say thank you, but he doesn’t really know who he’d be thanking. Richie has to leave the city again in a few days and Eddie is overcome with the need to ask him to stay forever. 

“He still know how to use a knife?” Guy says. “I taught him everything he knows.” 

“He stabbed me,” Eddie says. “He fucking - “ Then suddenly Richie rips the phone out of Eddie’s hands and says a hasty goodbye and hangs up. 

“Turn the TV off, will you, my little lemon tart?” Richie says, pulling Eddie up until he’s almost fully on top of Richie, crushing him. “Not while we’re in bed.” 

“You know what,” Eddie says, but he switches it off. He sighs against Richie’s lips, sweet and citrusy and all for him, and lets Richie kiss him until they both forget what he was going to say anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I am on twitter @boners


End file.
